Neil Donovan is (incharge) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-05-30 16:22:00 |
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Entry tags: | door: marvel comics, norman osborn |
Who: Norman Osborn
What: Narrative.
Where: California.
When: Recently.
Warnings/Rating: Creepy. Norman being Norman.
They were fools, all of them, to think that they could keep Gwen Stacy's pregnancy from him. Some of the best and brightest had tried, and failed, to keep Norman Osborn in the dark; one idiot man and his little girlfriend could hardly succeed where others had not. Oh, he'd known. Of course he had. But he'd feigned ignorance, refraining from informing his son or confronting Gwen with what he knew. Instead, he pulled strings from afar, and he watched, and the foolish blonde was none the wiser.
When she chose to give his grandchild up for adoption, Norman knew. The family recommended to Gwen had been a cover, nothing more, and the baby went instead to a couple on his payroll, who raised her as per his instruction. And Gwen, Gwen never knew. She moved forward and never looked back, thinking it was over, thinking it was done. His flesh and blood, left to be raised by strangers.
Norman couldn't allow that.
She was an Osborn, the child. Young, yes, but in ten years, in twenty, she had potential. Harry had finally begun to fall in line, after all, and under his guidance, she would do the same. He would secure his legacy, though the prospect of death was one he looked upon with scorn. Yes, even death was viewed as an obstacle, a bump in the road that Norman Osborn would, someday, overcome, one way or another.
For years, he watched, and he waited. Then, when the girl was three, just a toddler, Norman chose to act. He had a cover story prepared; the adorable, sweet little orphan, the terrible tragedy, and the selfless business mogul with more than enough means to ensure the child was taken care of. Her parents were former Oscorp employees, which tied everything in a nice little bow. He was meticulous. He was thorough. It was an airtight plan, and no one would ever know that the darling little girl was actually Norman Osborn's granddaughter, the child of his own son and his childhood friend.
Under the guise of an impromptu business trip, Norman flew to California in order to fetch the child with only two others, men who were loyal to a fault and knew that the price of betrayal would be death. The couple with which the child had been placed were, actually, former Oscorp employees, well paid for their role; they simply weren't yet aware that their parts were about to come to a screeching halt. No matter. They were expecting him, and he was let into a house that was large and pristine, white picket fence and immaculate lawn. The little girl was a blue-eyed blonde, or so he'd been told, like her mother, but her hair had been dyed a darker shade of brown and was currently braided into pigtails, tied with pink ribbons.
Oh, she was a pretty child, of that there was no doubt. Perfection was what Norman saw when he looked at her, a little living doll in a dress and shiny black shoes, one hand firmly clenched around a stuffed rabbit. He dropped into a crouch, which brought him to her level, and he smiled, all charm and kindness as her caregivers nudged her forward.
"Hello, sweetheart," he said, and she looked at him shyly, glancing back and forth between those who had taken care of her for years and the man who would, from this moment onward, be her father. He had, first and foremost, wanted a son, having little interest in a girl, but she was an Osborn. She had his blood, and that was something he had interest in. "Hello," the child echoed, sugary sweetness and lisp that came with her age. "Are you my Daddy?"
Norman glanced upward at the couple and smiled. Good. He'd instructed them to raise her with the understanding that they were not her parents, and he was pleased that they had done so. Pity he was going to have to kill them. "Yes, my dear, I am," he told her. "And you're going to come live with me now, and my son. Harry. Come," he coaxed, extending a hand. "Come, Emily." Oh, yes, he'd named the child after his long-dead wife, though whether that suggested any sort of actual affection for the girl was questionable. After a pause which seemed to stretch for an eternity, the little girl placed her free hand in his and shuffled forward.
Look, Normie, she already knows how to come when you call, the voice in his head snickered, and he smiled. "Good girl. Now, you just go wait in the car with these nice men, and I'll be right out." There was a kitten waiting for her in the nondescript black car with tinted windows outside, and she nodded trustingly, letting his two companions lead her out down the sidewalk with a happy skip in her step.
He watched for a few seconds, and then, Norman closed the door.
The two, a man and a woman, eyed him apprehensively, glancing between one another before the man stepped forward. "We want more money," he began, audibly nervous. "You'll need us to keep quiet for your plan to work, Mr. Osborn. What you've been paying us so far isn't enough anymore."
Norman regarded the man for a long, long moment, and then he grinned. "You're right, I do need you to keep quiet." Without warning, he lashed out, closing a hand around the other man's throat and slowly, slowly, tightening his hold. The man's eyes widened and he gasped, attempting in vain to break free, but he was too strong. He'd improved the Goblin serum over time, and now, now he was even better than he'd been before. "But you won't be receiving any more money, I'm afraid. I appreciate what you've done, of course, but I no longer have need for either of you."
The woman, stupid as she was, tried to run, and went sprawling before she could take two steps, thrown backward by a fierce backhand. "Now, now, I was hoping you wouldn't make this difficult," he said, and then he laughed. "Who am I kidding? I was hoping you would. But don't worry, I'll take excellent care of little Emily." He released his hold on the man, who dropped to the floor, wheezing for air and clawing at his throat.
"So." Norman clapped his hands together. "House fire or car accident. Which will it be?"